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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515710">Break the Fourth Wall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradox_Aethernaut/pseuds/Paradox_Aethernaut'>Paradox_Aethernaut</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Complete, Drowning, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Blood, Reality Bending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 04:42:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515710</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradox_Aethernaut/pseuds/Paradox_Aethernaut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You can’t remember any life except the one the Actor casts you in. The mysterious Host promises that only his powers can set you free, but does cooperating with him really lead to freedom? There’s no hope for escape… unless you can break the fourth wall.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Implied ish?, Mark Fischbach &amp; Y/N | The District Attorney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Car</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Mark left you alone in the car, again. You’ve asked if he wanted company while he ran errands, but he always refuses. You’re not really sure why. You suspect it’s because he likes surprises too much; he doesn’t want you to see what new, random thing he might buy until he’s ready to surprise you with it. A small smile spreads over your face.</p>
<p class="p1 cc_cursor">You sit in the passenger seat, and put both feet up on the white leather console. Mark hates it when you do that. You know he’d panic if he saw you sitting like this. He’s had the Tesla for as long as you can remember, and it still smells brand new, like plastic and synthetic leather; he’s very meticulous about it. You think it’s funny how much he cares about silly details like what his car looks like, or what kind of watch he has, or whether the two of you color-coordinate when you go out together. You don’t really care that much, though. What Mark doesn’t know won’t hurt him; your boots are clean, anyway.</p>
<p class="p1">Your eyes stare blankly for a second. You’re tired. Why are you tired? You don’t remember sleeping badly last night. In fact, you don’t remember falling asleep at all.</p>
<p class="p1">You frown to yourself. <em>What even happened yesterday? </em>you wonder. You had a nightmare, you remember that. <em>Another</em> nightmare— you’re certain you’ve had this nightmare before, though you can’t remember when you had it, or how many times you’ve had it. You remember endless darkness, all around you. You remember feeling cold, numb. You remember feeling trapped. You don’t remember much else about it.</p>
<p class="p1">You take a second to tilt the seat back. That’s somehow a less comfortable position than you were in before, so you sigh, and put the car seat back upright again. You’re tired, but somehow, you can’t sleep. When was the last time you slept? Last night, surely. But why don’t you remember it?</p>
<p class="p1">The thought nags at you, bothers you. It’s almost like there’s a separate voice in your mind that’s telling you to pay attention to this. But you don’t want to pay attention to this. You’re tired.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Why is Mark taking so long?</em> You huff an anxious breath through your nose. You click the radio on, to distract yourself.<br/><br/>Click<em>… static…<br/><br/></em>A voice you don’t recognize starts to talk, remarkably clearly, over the radio: <em>“You hear a voice speaking to you on the radio, a voice that is somehow familiar to you, yet wholly disconcerting. At first, you wonder if it’s some kind of strange audio drama, played out for a different audience, telling a story that isn’t yours. You’re used to playing bit parts in someone else’s story, aren’t you? But Mark isn’t the main character this time. This time, this time, it’s </em>your<em> story.</em></p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>You inhale breath, and turn your head, left, then right, as though searching for help, but none arrives. You realize that as the voice speaks, you imitate its direction at the very same moment. That’s impossible, you think, but you decide to test it, just in case…”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“STOP!” you shout at the radio.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“‘STOP!’ you shout, suddenly, loud enough to even startle yourself. The voice on the radio shouts at exactly the same instant you do, scratchily peaking the audio in the car’s speakers. You know it can’t have been a coincidence. But, part of you still wants to ignore it, wants to forget. Have you ever thought about just how often you forget things, important things?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“What are you talking about?” you hiss.</p>
<p class="p1">“‘<em>What are you talking about?’ You put your feet back on the floor and lean forward in your seat, your voice quavering very slightly. You know exactly what the voice is talking about, you just want to put on a brave face, because you’re frightened. Yes, the voice frightens you, but what frightens you more is that you know it speaks the truth. Only the voice on the radio can see the truth about you, about Mark, about every nightmare you’ve had, about every question that you’ve found yourself forgetting, forgetting the instant you see Mark again.”</em></p>
<p class="p1">“You don’t know me, you’re… a radio!”</p>
<p class="p1">“‘<em>You don’t know me, you’re… a radio!’ you say, frantically, pausing as you realize the voice is still speaking in unison with you when you speak. You suck breath. </em></p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t know how the <em>hell</em> you’re <em>doing</em> that, but…”</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“‘I don’t know how the hell you’re doing that, but…’ You stop, too disconcerted by the echo to finish your sentence.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“Stop doing that! You’re freaking me out!”</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“‘Stop doing that!’ you cry. ‘You’re freaking me out!’ You reach for the knob of the car radio to turn it off, but you feel your fingers freeze up around the knob. As much as you will your muscles to turn the radio off, you find that you can’t do it. You make a strangled sound — is it the voice controlling you? Or is it your own curiosity, keeping you from shutting the voice out completely?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“If you want to tell me something, just tell me, you don’t have to make a big production out of it!”</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“'If you want to tell me something, just tell me, you don’t have to make a big production out of it!’ The voice chuckles slightly at this. The voice knows that he doesn’t need a big production, not like your friend, Mark. All the voice needs is your cooperation.”<br/><br/></em><em>…</em>Click<em>.</em></p>
<p class="p1">You finally will yourself to turn the radio off, your heart pounding hard in your ears. The silence feels heightened and strange. Suddenly the radio crackles to life again, all on its own, the mysterious voice more distant, and full of static:<br/><br/><em>“If you refuse to cooperate, you will regret the consequences! You will see, you will forget, the moment he comes back, you will forget!”</em></p>
<p class="p1">The radio falls silent again. You realize that when the static noise startled you, you contorted yourself into a ball, your hands raised in front of you protectively. Slowly, you release your hands from the fists they formed, and lower your feet back onto the floor. You allow yourself to breathe again, deliberately.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Wraith of the Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">A loud THUNK comes from behind you. Your whole body jerks, your head whipping around. You exhale… it’s Mark, finally, opening and closing the trunk of the car. He waves at you through the back window, and you wave back, with a sort of half-smile.</p>
<p class="p1">He opens the driver’s seat door, and sits down, laughing. He’s holding a grocery bag on his lap. “Oh, that got you good, didn’t it! You should’ve <em>seen</em> your face!” His eyes sparkle when he looks at you, and you find yourself smiling at him, a feeling of relief starting to spread through your anxious body.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sorry, you startled me!” you chuckle. “But I was already kind of freaked out… the weirdest thing happened while you were gone…”</p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t worry, I made extra sure that we’ll have everything we need for this camping trip,” Mark cuts you off, appearing not to acknowledge what you’d said. He counts on his fingers. “Tent, sleeping bags, flashlight, walkie-talkies, every flavor of granola bar…” He reaches into the grocery bag, and pulls out granola bar after granola bar, chucking them carelessly into the back seat as he lists them. “Cookies and cream, peanut butter, lemon, blueberry muffin, birthday cake… What even <em>is</em> ‘birthday cake’ flavor, anyway?” He pauses to analyze the granola bar, makes a face, then throws it back with the others.</p>
<p class="p1">A bit bewildered, you find yourself nodding along, almost hypnotically. Right, the camping trip, that’s why you were at the store, to prepare for the camping trip. What were you going to say again? You got a bit lost in Mark’s list, and now all you can think about is, what <em>does</em> ‘birthday cake’ taste like, anyway? Aren’t birthday cakes whatever flavor the person whose birthday it is decides it should be?<br/><br/>“Anyway!” Mark throws the grocery bag and the rest of its contents haphazardly behind him, and puts the car into Drive, the engine revving to life. “It’ll be so nice to get away from it all, won’t it? The trees, the fresh air, we’ll really be roughing it! Of course, there’s no one I’d rather be roughing it with except you~” He winks.</p>
<p class="p1">“You cheesy bastard.” You smile, chuckling and turning away, looking out the side window. You watch as the car backs out of its parking spot and leaves, watch the cars next to you start to blur a bit as you start to pick up speed.</p>
<p class="p1">You blink, and for a second, the darkness tinged red inside your eyelids lingers, blanking everything out even when your eyes open again. Even though it lasts only for a second, it grips you with a cold feeling of dread. Your hands feel numb. You blink again, and the darkness clears, instantly.</p>
<p class="p1">Out the window, you see only a thick forest of pine trees, laced with misty shadows; no cars or buildings anymore. You don’t remember how you got here. Did you fall asleep on the car ride here? You must have; you were pretty tired, after all. But you don’t remember falling asleep.</p>
<p class="p1">“We’re here!” Mark announces. He pushes the door open, excitedly. “Come on! We’d better hurry… we have to hike up to our campsite before the sun goes down. We don’t want to be stuck out in the scary woods at night, now do we?” He chuckles, low, then jumps out of the car and goes around to the trunk. His footsteps crunch in the dirt, loud in the silent woods. You start to follow him, but he meets you halfway, carrying two full backpacking packs, one in each hand. He holds one out to you. “Here, put this on! It shouldn’t be heavy… well, it shouldn’t be <em>that</em> heavy, anyway!”</p>
<p class="p1">You take the backpack, grunting as you realize he’s lying… it is <em>very</em> heavy. “What the hell… did you <em>put…</em> in this backpack, Mark?” you chuckle, struggling and contorting and straining to put the backpack on. You don’t question how Mark managed to fit both of these large backpacks in the trunk at the same time.</p>
<p class="p1">“I told you, weren’t you listening?” Mark says. He repeats his list, faster this time, his enunciation degrading the faster he tries to talk: “Tent, sleeping bags, flashlight, walkie-talkies, cooks-peabutter-lemon-blubbury-cake… rope, crowbar, tactical shovel…”<br/><br/>“Wait, wait,” you chuckle, breathing heavily from the strain. “You <em>added</em> a few things, mister!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Pffft, nah... No way!” Mark insists, waving a dismissive hand. “Come on, it’s not <em>that</em> far of a hike from here, you’ll make it just fine.” He hoists his own pack onto his back with no effort at all, snapping the buckle around his chest. You narrow your eyes at him. “Show-off…” you mumble, shaking your head with a tight smile.<br/><br/>Mark pulls a walkie-talkie from the pack, though you’re not quite sure which pocket he pulled it from, and turns it on with a sharp squeal. “Hello? Testing?” he tries. “Hey, take out your walkie-talkie. We’ll need to make sure they work, just in case we get… <em>separated</em>.” He says this in a low, conspiratorial tone, as if morbidly excited by the idea.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sure… uh, channel 1?” You raise one eyebrow, and take your own walkie-talkie out of its pouch on the side of your pack. You turn it on, and it crackles to life, bleeping and squealing. “Hello?” you try, and your voice repeats into Mark’s walkie-talkie, distorted and full of static. Mark gives you a thumbs-up and a smile.</p>
<p class="p1">“Cell phones don’t <em>work </em>up here, you see…” he explains, leaning in, his voice still low, excited. “All we’ll have are our wits…” He taps the side of his head with one finger. “… and our walkie-talkies.” He clicks the walkie-talkie on and off, making a beeping noise. “Promise me… you’ll <em>never</em> lose sight of me, not for one, single instant! All it takes is one instant… that’s when the bears’ll get you! Or worse… the Wraith of the Woods!”</p>
<p class="p1">“… the… what?” you try, but Mark immediately turns around, and starts to walk, quickly, up the narrow trail through the dark stand of trees. Startled, you have to jog to catch up to him, wincing as your heavy pack bounces up and down on your shoulders. “The what??” you try again, more insistently.</p>
<p class="p1">Mark doesn’t turn around to face you. He keeps walking with his face rigid forward, staring off into the middle distance.</p>
<p class="p1">“They say… that in the spaces where the shadows start and the light ends…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Losing the Plot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The walkie-talkie in your hand makes a loud, obnoxious feedback noise, then crackles and sputters. Mark’s head snap-turns, startled. He glares at the walkie-talkie. “What the hell was that?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t know! I didn’t touch any of the buttons!” you insist, quickly clicking the walkie-talkie off. You hold up both hands, clutching the walkie-talkie with one thumb.</p>
<p class="p1">He frowns, skeptical, then clears his throat. “As I was saying… before I was <em>rudely</em> interrupted…”</p>
<p class="p1">Your feet suddenly crunch pine needles and sticks instead of the hard-packed dirt of the trail. You look down at your boots, quickly, then back up at Mark.</p>
<p class="p1">“… wait, hold on!” you cry, pulling the back of Mark’s backpack to stop him from walking forward any more. “Where did the trail go?”</p>
<p class="p1">Mark makes a growling noise of displeasure, rolling his head around to look down at you. “We’re still <em>going </em>in the right <em>direction</em>, and <em>that’s</em> all that matters, <em>right</em>?” he hisses, his eyes suddenly sharp, cold. <br/><br/>You hold up both hands, taking a step back. “Jesus, Mark, you don’t have to bite my head off…? I just… don’t want us to get lost…!”<br/><br/>Mark takes a very deep breath through his nose and closes his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “… we’re not <em>lost,</em>” he insists. He chuckles, strangely. “How could we get <em>lost</em>? We only just started the hike!” He opens his eyes, and smiles at you, but something in his smile seems off, fake somehow. “I know <em>exactly</em> where I’m going,” he says, but you don’t believe him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you have a map?” you ask him, frowning a little bit. “Can I see where we are at, on the map?”</p>
<p class="p1">His smile melts, instantly. “Of <em>course</em> I have a <em>map,</em>” he grumbles. “Not that I <em>need </em>one.” He takes his backpack off, letting it fall sideways into the pine needles. Still grumbling, he wrestles it upright and rummages around inside. Eventually, triumphantly, he pulls out a folded map, holding it out to you. “See? Happy now?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Thanks…” you say, taking the map from him. You unfold it, with some difficulty. At first, all you see are topographical drawings of mountains, red elevation lines marked in wobbly concentric circles. None of the mountains are named, and you have no idea how to begin to tell where you are on this map. There isn’t even a compass rose.</p>
<p class="p1">But, as you squint and puzzle over it a bit longer, you swear the red lines start to move, morph. You start to make out weird cursive letters being formed from the twisting lines, letters that turn into words, words that turn into a whole sentence. It says, <em>“You find yourself alone in the dark forest, thunder startling the map out of your hands.”</em></p>
<p class="p1">“… thunder?” you mumble, but the word is barely out of your mouth before a massive BOOM of thunder startles you. Your hands release the map, and a breeze blows it right into your face, obscuring your vision. Spluttering, you scramble to grab the map again, but in vain. The wind rips it off your face, sending it spiraling away.<br/><br/>You swore the sky was clear and sunny a second ago. Now, the sky is black, crowded with angry storm clouds. Wind whistles harshly through the trees, stinging your face with cold. Worse, you <em>know </em>Mark had been crouched right in front of you a second ago, too. Now, he’s nowhere to be seen.</p>
<p class="p1">“Mark?!” you cry, your voice strangled. “<em>Mark!!</em>” You fumble quickly for your walkie-talkie. “Mark, what happened, where are you, can you hear me??” you stammer into it.<br/><br/>The voice that replies is not Mark’s. <em>“You’ve never been good at keeping promises, have you?”</em> it says. You recognize it: the voice from the radio. You almost forgot about it. Why would you have forgotten something like that?</p>
<p class="p1">“Who are you?” you reply, immediately, sharply, pulling your sweater more tightly around you.</p>
<p class="p1">The walkie-talkie bleeps. <em>“I am the Host,” </em>it says. The first time you’ve ever heard it use a first-person pronoun.</p>
<p class="p1">“Host of what?” you reply.</p>
<p class="p1">It laughs, a weird, human sound for such an inhuman voice. <em>“You are a person who knows how to ask good questions,” </em>it says. <em>“This will serve you well.” </em></p>
<p class="p1">“It does no damn good to ask a good question without a good answer!” you snap.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“Answers you will have,” </em>says the Host. <em>“You will have to trust me…”</em></p>
<p class="p1">“Well, I <em>don’t</em> trust you,” you retort, cutting the Host off by pressing the Talk button. “What did you do to Mark?”</p>
<p class="p1">There is a long pause. All you hear for several seconds is the sound of your own breathing and the wind whistling through the upper branches of the pine trees. Another peal of thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. Finally, your walkie-talkie crackles to life again.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“As you vanish from sight, the forest vanishes around Mark, leaving him in a familiar darkness. He rages, flooding the darkness with his soul’s red light, cursing the powers he doesn’t understand. Ever since his first untimely death, Mark has relished the power of immortality, the power to create every world he imagines. But there are still some things he can’t control, and he knows it. These are the things that keep him awake at night, the things that crawl under his skin and frighten him, anger him. He is reminded of them every time he looks at you.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">You press the Talk button to stop the voice, but you don’t immediately say anything. The walkie-talkie sputters static for several quiet moments. “Mark’s not…” you try, but you stop, releasing the Talk button.</p>
<p class="p1">You suddenly remember seeing Mark’s corpse wearing a red silk robe, laid out on the floor of his mansion, tape outlining where he’d fallen. You can see it clearly in your mind’s eye, then it vanishes, leaving only the tape outline.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“You know that you must piece together this story,” </em>says the Host. <em>“If you found yourself forgetting something as important as Mark’s death, what </em>else<em> might you have forgotten? The cold air invades your body, making you feel suddenly numb. You know you have to move. You don’t know where you’re going, but you drop your backpack and break into a run, forcing heat back into your body.”</em></p>
<p class="p1">You don’t want to obey the Host’s words, but a cold, numb feeling overwhelms you, frightens you. You feel like if you don’t move, you will become like a corpse, yourself. You drop your backpack and run into the dark woods, clutching the walkie-talkie between both hands.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Familiar Darkness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The crackly crunch of pine needles and sticks under your boots suddenly turns to the soft creak of snow, appearing in large patches all around you. You can see your breath form white puffs in front of you.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“As you reach the edge of the woods, the drifts of snow grow deeper,” </em>says the Host. <em>“All around you, the snow appears totally undisturbed, except for one trail of…”</em> The voice is suddenly cut off by a blast of feedback noise, painfully high-pitched. You make a startled cry of surprise, quickly turning the walkie-talkie off. You look around, quickly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Except for <em>what?</em>” you shout, your breath exploding into sharp clouds. All you can see is snow and trees and fog. <br/><br/>“You aren’t supposed to be here!”</p>
<p class="p1">You turn around, suddenly, at the familiar-sounding voice behind you. As you thought, it’s Mark… but, you don’t feel relieved to see him. His eyes flash with a dark, panicked anger, and a visible aura of darkness appears to follow him. As the Host had said, Mark appears to be glowing a very slight red, more noticeable against the blackness that follows him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well… neither are you!” you manage. You clip the walkie-talkie to your belt, and hold yourself tightly, gripping the elbows of your sweater. “You’re… you’re <em>dead</em>, I saw you die, I remember seeing you die! If… if you’re a ghost, or something, you should… move on!”</p>
<p class="p1">Mark blinks, confusion spreading over his face. Then, he laughs, low, loud. “I’m not <em>dead</em>!” he insists, shaking his head with an indulgent smile. “I am <em>beyond death</em>!” He opens both of his arms, wide. “And, thanks to me, so are you!”</p>
<p class="p1">“What are you talking about?” You point the antenna of the walkie-talkie at him, protectively.</p>
<p class="p1">He drops his arms, looking disappointed. “I would have thought a ‘thank you’ would have been appropriate!” he says. Then, a mad, sideways smile blooms on his face. “Isn’t it exciting, though? In this place, we can do anything we want, together! Time means nothing here…” He takes a few steps towards you.</p>
<p class="p1">You take several steps backwards. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, Mark, you’re acting really weird!” You don’t notice where you’re stepping — you feel one foot step onto a different surface, a very slippery one, and you hear a deep crackling noise. Your breath catches, you nearly lose balance, but you manage to bring your foot back to teeter on the edge of a small snow drift. You turn your head to look behind you.</p>
<p class="p1">You realize you’re standing right on the edge of a vast frozen lake, shiny and very deep blue. Your heart feels heavy in your chest, and your hands and feet feel numb. You don’t know how strong that ice is, but you’re glad you caught yourself before you had to find out.</p>
<p class="p1">“Careful!” Mark calls out. “Come on, you don’t have to be like that, don’t you trust me?” He approaches you closer, his red aura appearing to grow stronger the closer he gets. The darkness behind him spreads further and further, until you can’t see any of the trees behind him. He gets close, and takes both of your cold hands in his. His hands are warm, very warm.</p>
<p class="p1">“All I wanted was to find the perfect role for you to play,” he says, softly, looking at your hands. “It was perfect… every stage set exactly how I wished it to be… but <em>something has always gone wrong</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“… Mark, I don’t <em>want </em>to play a role,” you insist. “What’s wrong with just being ourselves??” You try to pull your hands free from his, but he grips you tighter.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s <em>mocking</em> me, it knows how <em>close</em> I am, but you… you still don’t fit any one narrative,” Mark continues over you, his voice more frustrated. “I’ve given you so many choices, I start to think I know what you’ll do, but you always choose something different…”</p>
<p class="p1">“Of <em>course</em> I don’t fit one narrative?” you try, growing more worried. “People don’t… <em>work</em> like that?!”</p>
<p class="p1">Mark blinks. “… of course.” He smiles, slowly, oddly, and chuckles. “You’re like <em>me</em>, aren’t you? You like to be all <em>kinds </em>of different things, just to see what you’re capable of. I knew I liked you for a reason.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t think I’m like you at all…” you say, wincing, shaking your head. Your jaw threatens to chatter from the cold, and you try to clench your teeth together.</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ll have to see,” Mark says. He releases your hands. “We’ll have to see what you choose next time.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Next time…?” you try, but your words catch in your throat. Mark suddenly pushes both of his hands against your chest, shoving you over backwards. “<em>Mark?!</em>” you cry out, but you can’t catch your balance this time.</p>
<p class="p1">Your back hits the ice, hard, shattering it into many, many pieces. Ice cold water completely consumes you as you sink further and deeper, all sound suddenly muffled, distant. You close your eyes, tightly, feeling your breath constrict in your throat. You swallow water, and your chest burns. When you try to open your eyes again, all you see is black darkness. Every part of your body feels numb with cold.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Memento Mori</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Suddenly, wind rushes past you instead of water, your stomach turning over as you accelerate faster backwards. You land, hard, on wooden flooring — you cough, still feeling a burning sensation in your chest. Instinctively, you grip your chest with one hand, catching ragged breaths. Your hands and your sweater feel completely dry. You try to push yourself up with the other hand.</p>
<p class="p1">You’re laying in the foyer of what must have once been a beautiful mansion, but it has clearly fallen into disrepair, abandoned. You recognize a grand staircase in front of you, with a balcony stretching along the upper floor. A thick layer of dust surrounds you, only just disturbed by your fall. Several walls have been graffitied, with edgy teenager jokes: a bug-eyed skull, a pentagram with an eye inside it, the word REDRUM in red spray paint. On one wall, you see a claw-footed dresser beneath a large, dusty mirror.</p>
<p class="p1">You use the dresser to help pull yourself up, coughing in the dust cloud. You lean on the dresser a second and glance in the mirror, expecting to check yourself, see how worse for wear you are. Instead, you see nothing in the mirror, only the reflection of the staircase and the rest of the foyer behind you.</p>
<p class="p1">“… very funny, Mark!” you call out, looking around, your voice quavering very slightly. You take the walkie-talkie off of your belt, surprised to find it still intact, and click it on. It immediately squeals with a loud, high-pitched feedback noise, and you wince, clicking it from channel 1 to channel 2.</p>
<p class="p1">You can kind of hear distant voices talking to each other over that channel, but you don’t recognize them. You push Talk. “Hello? Help, I think I’m lost??” you say.</p>
<p class="p1">Channel 2 falls quiet for a moment. Then, two strangers, in unison, say, “You may find your way, if you can accept the truth.”</p>
<p class="p1">“What truth?” you grumble, getting tired of riddles. But, then, you catch a glimpse of the mirror.</p>
<p class="p1">Your reflection stares back at you, this time. But your expression in the mirror is blank, pale. A small wound in your reflection’s chest quickly blooms with blood, spreading and staining your reflection’s shirt. Your breath grows shallow, panicky — you look down at your own chest, touching it with one hand. It still burns your lungs a bit to breathe, but there is no wound there.</p>
<p class="p1">When you look back up at the mirror, your reflection makes eye contact. They slowly place their hand on their wound, covering their fingers in blood. With their bloody hand, they draw two words on their side of the mirror, which appear backwards to you: DEYARTEB and REDRUM.</p>
<p class="p1">Betrayed. Murder. It hurts to think about what that means. You don’t want to remember, you don’t want to accept that at all. Your reflection reaches out their hand to you. Their eyes appear entirely black.</p>
<p class="p1">“The truth is that death is inevitable, for everyone,” says one of the strangers, your walkie-talkie still set to channel 2.</p>
<p class="p1">The other one echoes, “And you’ve been dead for quite a long time now. You just haven’t been able to accept it.”</p>
<p class="p1">“That’s why you feel lost,” says the first. “You’ve been reset… how many times?”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s time to end the cycle,” says the second. “Memento mori.”</p>
<p class="p1">You shake your head, several times, backing away from the mirror. “No! Not like <em>that</em>!” you cry. You run, full tilt, away from the mirror, from the ghoulish apparition within. You find yourself in the living room, full of chairs and couches all covered in dusty sheets — you dive behind the farthest couch, facing the empty fireplace. You hold your knees to your chest, and bury your face in your knees.</p>
<p class="p1">Yes, you remember death — you remember exactly how it felt. You remember hearing the gun discharge, the Colonel’s cry of surprise, the way your stomach turned over itself as you fell backwards over the balcony, that balcony. Is that why you keep feeling numb, cold?</p>
<p class="p1">But Mark had said both of you were <em>beyond death</em>. Is that what this is? Some kind of bizarre Purgatory? Or is there more to it than that?</p>
<p class="p1">Your walkie-talkie crackles. You forgot you still had it on.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s almost a relief to hear the Host’s voice instead of the two mysterious strangers’. <em>“I almost lost you!” </em>There’s actual emotion in their voice, a heightened frustration. <em>“Now you understand why it is so important to trust me?? I am the only one who can guide you…”</em></p>
<p class="p1">“… are you dead, too?” you ask, pushing Talk to cut the Host off.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“No,” </em>the Host says, sounding slightly annoyed at the question. <em>“When I entered this house, it and I became one. We know all of what happened here, what is happening, and what could happen in the future. I can control what is— everything I say, happens.” </em></p>
<p class="p1">“Then who was talking to me just now? Why am I here? Why are you doing this??” you try, your voice growing more and more strained.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“I can only take credit for a small part of this story,” </em>says the Host, disappointedly. <em>“That’s why it’s been so wrong, so disjointed! Mark is trying to write one story, while Death seeks another, and nobody is willing to cooperate with anyone!”</em></p>
<p class="p1">“Wait, that was…? Never mind…” You cut the Host off again. “What if I want my own story, huh? I don’t want any of you telling my story for me, I just want to… you know, live my life, not be dead anymore, go to the grocery store, eat spaghetti, I don’t know, normal stuff??”</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“If you listen to me… we can do anything we want,” </em>says the Host.</p>
<p class="p1">“… that’s exactly what Mark said,” you say, low, suspicious.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>“But he’s dead, isn’t he?” </em>the Host says, sounding slightly more manic. <em>“He doesn’t even have his own body anymore, he doesn’t know what he’s doing… he’s writing blind! Only I can see the truth!”</em></p>
<p class="p1">You turn off the walkie-talkie, taking a very deep breath. The Host may know a lot of things, but you certainly don’t want him controlling you, no matter how much he knows about you. But how do you know which choices are your own, anymore?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Life and Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">Shakily, you stand up, brushing dust off of you in clouds. First things, first… you need to get out of this house.</p>
<p class="p2">You cross the living room, quietly, and head back down the hall to the foyer, the grand staircase. You stop at the threshold of the room, looking at the empty mirror on the opposite wall. Your ghoulish, bleeding reflection is gone, but the backwards words it wrote in red are still there, slowly dripping down the backside of the mirror.</p>
<p class="p2">You don’t want to step foot in the foyer again. But, there’s the front door, the way out, right by the mirror. Gritting your teeth, you run across the foyer, closing your eyes when you get close to the mirror. You grab the front door handle, push, and pull the door open, scrambling through it.</p>
<p class="p2">When you open your eyes, you’re in the foyer again, facing the grand staircase. Everything appears the same, except now, all the dust is cleared, the walls are clean, the mirror is empty, all brand new again.</p>
<p class="p2">You make a confused, panicked noise. You turn around and walk through the front door again.</p>
<p class="p2">Again, you’re facing the same staircase, but it’s dusty, abandoned, destroyed. You turn around again to open the door, leaving the front door open this time.</p>
<p class="p2">Now, you can see both staircases facing each other through the door, forming an infinite loop. You slide down the doorjamb to the floor, sitting directly in between the two foyers. Your head falls into your hands.</p>
<p class="p2">“Don’t despair,” says a familiar voice. “I can help you find the way out!”<br/><br/>You immediately stand up, facing the new, polished staircase. There, wearing the red silk robe you saw him die in, is Mark, hurrying down the stairs towards you.</p>
<p class="p2">“You stay away from me!” you insist, holding out one finger at him. “You can’t push me into a frozen lake and expect me to suddenly trust you?”</p>
<p class="p2">“What are you talking about?” he says, shaking his head, appearing confused. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you… I was worried sick! This house… it’s certainly not what it appears! It’s a good thing I studied up on supernatural phenomena before we got here…!”</p>
<p class="p2">“Wh…?” You blink, feeling a little fuzzy. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him. Why would you have a memory about him pushing you into a frozen lake, that doesn’t make any sense?</p>
<p class="p2">But, then, you hear another voice behind you: <em>“The lies of the self-styled actor fall on deaf ears. He knows his powers can’t compare to mine.”</em></p>
<p class="p2">You turn around, sharply. You’re used to hearing that voice muffled, through radios and walkie-talkies. But, this time, there is a man coming down the ruined, dusty staircase, continuing to narrate under his breath as he walks towards you. He’s wearing a torn tan trench coat, and a bloodied cloth wrapped tightly around his eyes like a blindfold. He’s also carrying a metal baseball bat in both hands.</p>
<p class="p2">“And what do you think you’re going to do with <em>that</em>, huh?” Mark straightens. “I don’t know who the <em>hell</em> you are, but if you hurt one hair of my friend…!” He reaches behind him, and pulls a pistol out of thin air, pointing it at the Host.</p>
<p class="p2">“Nobody’s going to shoot <em>anybody</em>!” you insist, holding up both hands, one hand directed at each of them.</p>
<p class="p2">The Host smiles oddly, tilting his head to one side. <em>“Mark may not fear for his own life, but there is one thing he fears. He fears losing control.” </em>The Host turns around, and walks a little further back into the foyer. He appears to look thoughtfully into the mirror at his own reflection, staring blindly back at him through the bloody letters. He hoists the bat over his shoulder, as if about to take a swing.</p>
<p class="p2">Mark pales, noticeably. <em>“You wouldn’t dare,” </em>he hisses.</p>
<p class="p2">The Host turns his head, and smiles. <em>“This dimension has but two doors. One door is Death, the other is Life,” </em>he says. <em>“Both are completely out of Mark’s control. Mark knows that if I smash this mirror, I invite Death in here, to come for the both of you, at last.”</em></p>
<p class="p2">“And for <em>you,</em> too!” Mark snaps. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this scot-free!”</p>
<p class="p2">The Host chuckles softly, and shakes his head. <em>“No. I can’t leave this place, even in death. It would be a contradiction, a paradox. So, really, I have nothing to lose. Except for an excellent protagonist — that I would deeply regret losing.”</em></p>
<p class="p2">Your heart pounds hard in your ears. If smashing <em>that </em>mirror invites Death, what would smashing the other mirror, the brand new one on Mark’s side, do? Is that the doorway to Life the Host is talking about? A nervous excitement rises in your chest. What does “inviting Life in” even mean? But, it’s the first real hope you’ve had…</p>
<p class="p2">“You don’t have to lose anyone…” you say to the Host, holding up both hands. “You win, I <em>get </em>it, I’ll cooperate with you, I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t smash that mirror!”</p>
<p class="p2">“<em>What?</em>” Mark sputters, sounding deeply offended. “We most certainly <em>won’t </em>agree to work with him! What are you thinking??”</p>
<p class="p2">The Host slowly takes the bat off of his shoulder. <em>“As you watch the Host slowly lower his bat, you start to believe that your lies will win the Host over,” </em>he says, low. <em>“Yet betrayal remains foremost in your mind, and the Host can see this. But… to keep things interesting… the Host decides to give you a test.” </em>He walks over, closer, to you. You notice an odd smell clinging to him, like mold, or oil, or some combination of the two. He hands you the baseball bat.</p>
<p class="p2">You look at him, confused, a little nervous. His blindfolded eyes seem to stare past you. <br/><br/><em>“Yes, you know what you want to do with the baseball bat. I know what you want to do with it, too. But, the question is, will you be </em>able<em> to do it?” </em></p>
<p class="p2">“What could they possibly want with a baseball bat, except to knock you into next Sunday…” Mark growls.</p>
<p class="p2">The Host turns his head more towards Mark, appearing to look over your shoulder. <em>“You take the bat over your shoulder and turn to Mark. You feel in your heart every lie he’s ever told you, every person he’s tried to twist you into. Every friend of yours that he’s betrayed. Here, at last, you know only one way to end it all. You saw where Death was waiting for you. You know Death waits for him, too. You raise the baseball bat to hit him, drag him, finally, to his fate…”<br/><br/></em>You can feel your hands rising, gripping the bat tightly. No, wait, that’s not at all what you wanted to do! Those aren’t your thoughts at all! As much as you know Mark’s lied, as much as you do feel angry for what he’s done, you don’t want to <em>kill </em>him, much less deliver him to whatever that <em>thing</em> was in the Death mirror! You strain your arms, keeping them still, shaky, over your head. Your teeth clench tightly, every muscle in your body refusing to move the way you want them to. Your eyes remain fixed on the still, glass mirror just to one side and behind Mark.</p>
<p class="p2">“Move out of the way!!” you shout, releasing every breath of air in your clenched lungs. Mark ducks, dives, to one side, and you finally release your muscles, letting yourself follow through with your swing. You stumble your feet forward, letting go of the bat at the last second, pointing it at the mirror.</p>
<p class="p2">It goes flying through the air in one fluid motion. <em>“Wait, no, that’s not supposed to…!” </em>cries the Host, but before he can finish his sentence, the bat connects with the mirror, instantly shattering it.</p>
<p class="p2">Cracks start to form all over your body, too, glowing with a strange light. Pieces of you start to break away, drawn to the shattered mirror. Somehow, this isn’t an unpleasant feeling. It feels like you are finally being set free.</p>
<p class="p2">“No!” Mark cries, moving to grab your leg. “You can’t leave!! Where will you go? If you don’t have a body, you’ll die, forever, out there!”</p>
<p class="p2">As more and more pieces of you start to break away, disappearing into particles of light, you start to get flashes of visions, tied to other lives, memories that don’t belong to you. It feels like being plugged into the source of Life itself, expressed in millions of lives, all at once. “… I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that,” you say. “Every piece of me will have a home.”</p>
<p class="p2">“I’ll <em>find</em> you, every piece of you!” Mark declares, his expression frantic. “I’ll put you back together again, you’ll see!!”</p>
<p class="p2">“Maybe you will,” you say, managing a smile. “That sounds like a worthy enough story for you, isn’t it?”</p>
<p class="p2">Mark exhales, shaking his head with a pained chuckle as he remains kneeled on the floor. “… maybe… maybe you got me there…”</p>
<p class="p2">The last thing you see is Mark’s sad, but genuine smile at you as the last of you breaks apart into light.</p>
<p class="p2">You live on, but each piece of you connects to another heart, another life, somewhere in the dimension of Life. Each piece of you joins those souls in eating spaghetti and going to the grocery store and taking part in all the beautiful, normal things you missed so much, and you encourage the part of them that cherishes these things.</p>
<p class="p2">You and these souls sit down to watch Youtube videos together, and sometimes, you see Mark again, there. Each piece of you knows he’s talking to you, and in those moments, you find yourself wishing you were whole again, wishing you could find your real original body again.</p>
<p class="p2">But, for now, you know you’ve found a kind of freedom that’s worthy of celebrating, one you’re happy to share with every soul you’ve found kinship with. For now, for now, it is peace enough.</p>
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